Etext of Knights of Art by Amy Steedman

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Title: Knights of Art
Stories of the Italian Painters

Author: Amy Steedman

Posting Date: September 13, 2008 [EBook #529]
Release Date: May, 1996

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KNIGHTS OF ART ***

Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.

KNIGHTS OF ART

STORIES OF THE ITALIAN PAINTERS

BY AMY STEEDMAN

AUTHOR OF 'IN GOD'S GARDEN'

TO FRANCESCA

ABOUT THIS BOOK

What would we do without our picture-books, I wonder? Before we knew how to read, before even we could speak,
we had learned to love them. We shouted with pleasure when we turned the pages and saw the spotted cow standing in
the daisy-sprinkled meadow, the foolish-looking old sheep with her gambolling lambs, the wise dog with his friendly
eyes. They were all real friends to us.

Then a little later on, when we began to ask for stories about the pictures, how we loved them more and more. There
was the little girl in the red cloak talking to the great grey wolf with the wicked eyes; the cottage with the bright pink

roses climbing round the lattice-window, out of which jumped a little maid with golden hair, followed by the great big
bear, the middle-sized bear, and the tiny bear. Truly those stories were a great joy to us, but we would never have
loved them quite so much if we had not known their pictured faces as well.

Do you ever wonder how all these pictures came to be made? They had a beginning, just as everything else had, but the
beginning goes so far back that we can scarcely trace it.

Children have not always had picture-books to look at. In the long-ago days such things were not known. Thousands
of years ago, far away in Assyria, the Assyrian people learned to make pictures and to carve them out in stone. In
Egypt, too, the Egyptians traced pictures upon the walls of their temples and upon the painted mummy-cases of the
dead. Then the Greeks made still more beautiful statues and pictures in marble, and called them gods and goddesses,
for all this was at a time when the true God was forgotten.

Afterwards, when Christ had come and the people had learned that the pictured gods were not real, they began to think
it wicked to make beautiful pictures or carve marble statues. The few pictures that were made were stiff and ugly, the
figures were not like real men and women, the animals and trees were very strange-looking things. And instead of
making the sky blue as it really was, they made it a chequered pattern of gold. After a time it seemed as if the art of
making pictures was going to die out altogether.

Then came the time which is called 'The Renaissance,' a word which means being born again, or a new awakening,
when men began to draw real pictures of real things and fill the world with images of beauty.

Now it is the stories of the men of that time, who put new life into Art, that I am going to tell you--men who learned,
step by step, to paint the most beautiful pictures that the world possesses.

In telling these stories I have been helped by an old book called The Lives of the Painters, by Giorgio Vasari, who was
himself a painter. He took great delight in gathering together all the stories about these artists and writing them down
with loving care, so that he shows us real living men, and not merely great names by which the famous pictures are
known.

It did not make much difference to us when we were little children whether our pictures were good or bad, as long as
the colours were bright and we knew what they meant. But as we grow older and wiser our eyes grow wiser too, and
we learn to know what is good and what is poor. Only, just as our tongues must be trained to speak, our hands to
work, and our ears to love good music, so our eyes must be taught to see what is beautiful, or we may perhaps pass it
carelessly by, and lose a great joy which might be ours.

So now if you learn something about these great artists and their wonderful pictures, it will help your eyes to grow wise.
And some day should you visit sunny Italy, where these men lived and worked, you will feel that they are quite old
friends. Their pictures will not only be a delight to your eyes, but will teach your heart something deeper and more
wonderful than any words can explain.

AMY STEEDMAN

CONTENTS

GIOTTO,
BORN 1276,
DIED 1337

FRA ANGELICO,
" 1387,
" 1466

MASACCIO,
" 1401,
" 1428

FRA FILIPPO LIPPI,
" 1412,
" 1469

SANDRO BOTTICELLI,
" 1446,
" 1610

DOMENICO GHIRLANDAIO,
" 1449,
" 1494

FILIPPINO LIPPI
" 1467,
" 1604

PIETRO PERUGINO,
" 1446,
" 1624

LEONARDO DA VINCI,
" 1462,
" 1619

RAPHAEL,
" 1483,
" 1620

MICHELANGELO,
" 1476,
" 1664

ANDREA DEL SARTO,
" 1487,
" 1631

GIOVANNI BELLINI,
" 1426,
" 1616

VITTORE CARPACCIO,
" 1470?
" 1619

GIORGIONE,
" 1477?
" 1610

TITIAN,
" 1477,
" 1676

TINTORETTO,
" 1662,
" 1637

PAUL VERONESE,
" 1628,
" 1688

LIST OF PICTURES

IN COLOUR

THE RELEASE OF ST. PETER. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
'The tall angel in flowing white robes gently leads St. Peter
out of prison,'
Church of the Carmine, Florence.

THE VISIT OF THE MAGI. BY GIOTTO,
'The little Baby Jesus sitting on His Mother's knee,'
Academia, Florence.

THE MEETING OF ANNA AND JOACHIM. BY GIOTTO,
'Two homely figures outside the narrow gateway,'
Sta. Maria Novella, Florence.

THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FRA ANGELICO,
'The gentle Virgin bending before the Angel messenger,'
S. Marco, Florence.

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. BY FRA ANGELICO,
'The Madonna in her robe of purest blue holding the Baby
close in her arms,'
Academia, Florence.

THE ANNUNCIATION. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
'The Madonna with the dove fluttering near, and the Angel
messenger bearing the lily branch,'
Academia Florence.

THE NATIVITY. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
'His Madonnas grew ever more beautiful,'
Academia, Florence.

THE ANGEL. BY BOTTICELLI,
TOBIAS AND THE ANGEL.
'His figures seemed to move as if to the rhythm of music,'
Academia, Florence.

ST. PETER IN PRISON. BY FILIPPO LIPPI,
'The sad face of St. Peter looks out through the prison bars,'
Church of the Carmine, Florence.

TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO,
THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
'Beyond was the blue thread of river and the single trees
pointing upwards,'
Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence.

TWO SAINTS. BY PERUGINO,
THE FRESCO OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
'Quiet dignified saints and spacious landscapes,'
Sta. Maddalena de Pazzi, Florence.

ST. JAMES. BY ANDREA DEL SARTO.
'The kind strong hand of the saint is placed lovingly
beneath the little chin,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

CHERUB. BY GIOV. BELLINI,
'Giovanni's angels are little human boys with grave sweet faces,'
Church of the Frari, Venice.

ST. TRYPHONIUS AND THE BASILISK. BY CARPACCIO,
'The little boy saint has folded his hands together and
looks upward in prayer,'
S. Giorgio Schiavari, Venice.

THE LITTLE VIRGIN. BY TITIAN,
'The little maid is all alone,'
Academia, Venice.

THE LITTLE ST. JOHN. BY VERONESE,
THE MADONNA ENTHRONED.
'The little St. John with the skin thrown over his bare
shoulder and the cross in his hand,'
Academia, Florence.

IN MONOCHROME

RELIEF IN MARBLE BY GIOTTO,
'The shepherd sitting under his tent, with the sheep in front,'
Campanile, Florence.

DRAWING BY MASACCIO,
'His models were ordinary Florentine youths,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

DRAWING BY GHIRLANDAIO,
'The men of the market-place,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

DRAWING BY LEONARDO DA VINCI,
'He loved to draw strange monsters,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

DRAWING BY RAPHAEL,
'Round-limbed rosy children, half human, half divine,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

DRAWING BY MICHELANGELO,
'A terrible head of a furious old man,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

DRAWING BY GIORGIONE,
'A man in Venetian dress helping two women to mount one
of the niches of a marble palace,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

DRAWING BY TINTORETTO,
'The head of a Venetian boy, such as Tintoretto met daily
among the fisher-folk of Venice,'
Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

GIOTTO

It was more than six hundred years ago that a little peasant baby was born in the small village of Vespignano, not far
from the beautiful city of Florence, in Italy. The baby's father, an honest, hard-working countryman, was called
Bondone, and the name he gave to his little son was Giotto.

Life was rough and hard in that country home, but the peasant baby grew into a strong, hardy boy, learning early what

cold and hunger meant. The hills which surrounded the village were grey and bare, save where the silver of the olive-
trees shone in the sunlight, or the tender green of the shooting corn made the valley beautiful in early spring. In summer
there was little shade from the blazing sun as it rode high in the blue sky, and the grass which grew among the grey
rocks was often burnt and brown. But, nevertheless, it was here that the sheep of the village would be turned out to find
what food they could, tended and watched by one of the village boys.

So it happened that when Giotto was ten years old his father sent him to take care of the sheep upon the hillside.
Country boys had then no schools to go to or lessons to learn, and Giotto spent long happy days, in sunshine and rain,
as he followed the sheep from place to place, wherever they could find grass enough to feed on. But Giotto did
something else besides watching his sheep. Indeed, he sometimes forgot all about them, and many a search he had to
gather them all together again. For there was one thing he loved doing better than all beside, and that was to try to draw
pictures of all the things he saw around him.

It was no easy matter for the little shepherd lad. He had no pencils or paper, and he had never, perhaps, seen a picture
in all his life. But all this mattered little to him. Out there, under the blue sky, his eyes made pictures for him out of the
fleecy white clouds as they slowly changed from one form to another. He learned to know exactly the shape of every
flower and how it grew; he noticed how the olive-trees laid their silver leaves against the blue background of the sky
that peeped in between, and how his sheep looked as they stooped to eat, or lay down in the shadow of a rock.

Nothing escaped his keen, watchful eyes, and then with eager hands he would sharpen a piece of stone, choose out the
smoothest rock, and try to draw on its flat surface all those wonderful shapes which had filled his eyes with their beauty.
Olive-trees, flowers, birds and beasts were there, but especially his sheep, for they were his friends and companions
who were always near him, and he could draw them in a different way each time they moved.

Now it fell out that one day a great master painter from Florence came riding through the valley and over the hills where
Giotto was feeding his sheep. The name of the great master was Cimabue, and he was the most wonderful artist in the
world, so men said. He had painted a picture which had made all Florence rejoice. The Florentines had never seen
anything like it before, and yet it was but a strange-looking portrait of the Madonna and Child, scarcely like a real
woman or a real baby at all. Still, it seemed to them a perfect wonder, and Cimabue was honoured as one of the city's
greatest men.

The road was lonely as it wound along. There was nothing to be seen but waves of grey hills on every side, so the
stranger rode on, scarcely lifting his eyes as he went. Then suddenly he came upon a flock of sheep nibbling the scanty
sunburnt grass, and a little brown-faced shepherd-boy gave him a cheerful 'Good-day, master.'

There was something so bright and merry in the boy's smile that the great man stopped and began to talk to him. Then
his eye fell upon the smooth flat rock over which the boy had been bending, and he started with surprise.

'Who did that?' he asked quickly, and he pointed to the outline of a sheep scratched upon the stone.

'It is the picture of one of my sheep there,' answered the boy, hanging his head with a shame-faced look. 'I drew it with
this,' and he held out towards the stranger the sharp stone he had been using.

'Who taught you to do this?' asked the master as he looked more carefully at the lines drawn on the rock.

The boy opened his eyes wide with astonishment 'Nobody taught me, master,' he said. 'I only try to draw the things that
my eyes see.'

'How would you like to come with me to Florence and learn to be a painter?' asked Cimabue, for he saw that the boy
had a wonderful power in his little rough hands.

Giotto's cheeks flushed, and his eyes shone with joy.

'Indeed, master, I would come most willingly,' he cried, 'if only my father will allow it.'

So back they went together to the village, but not before Giotto had carefully put his sheep into the fold, for he was
never one to leave his work half done.

Bondone was amazed to see his boy in company with such a grand stranger, but he was still more surprised when he
heard of the stranger's offer. It seemed a golden chance, and he gladly gave his consent.

Why, of course, the boy should go to Florence if the gracious master would take him and teach him to become a
painter. The home would be lonely without the boy who was so full of fun and as bright as a sunbeam. But such chances
were not to be met with every day, and he was more than willing to let him go.

So the master set out, and the boy Giotto went with him to Florence to begin his training.

The studio where Cimabue worked was not at all like those artists' rooms which we now call studios. It was much more
like a workshop, and the boys who went there to learn how to draw and paint were taught first how to grind and

prepare the colours and then to mix them. They were not allowed to touch a brush or pencil for a long time, but only to
watch their master at work, and learn all that they could from what they saw him do.

So there the boy Giotto worked and watched, but when his turn came to use the brush, to the amazement of all, his
pictures were quite unlike anything which had ever been painted before in the workshop. Instead of copying the stiff,
unreal figures, he drew real people, real animals, and all the things which he had learned to know so well on the grey
hillside, when he watched his father's sheep. Other artists had painted the Madonna and Infant Christ, but Giotto
painted a mother and a baby.

And before long this worked such a wonderful change that it seemed indeed as if the art of making pictures had been
born again. To us his work still looks stiff and strange, but in it was the beginning of all the beautiful pictures that belong
to us now.

Giotto did not only paint pictures, he worked in marble as well. To-day, if you walk through Florence, the City of
Flowers, you will still see its fairest flower of all, the tall white campanile or bell-tower, 'Giotto's tower' as it is called.
There it stands in all its grace and loveliness like a tall white lily against the blue sky, pointing ever upward, in the grand
old faith of the shepherd-boy. Day after day it calls to prayer and to good works, as it has done all these hundreds of
years since Giotto designed and helped to build it.

Some people call his pictures stiff and ugly, for not every one has wise eyes to see their beauty, but the loveliness of this
tower can easily be seen by all. 'There the white doves circle round and round, and rest in the sheltering niches of the
delicately carved arches; there at the call of its bell the black-robed Brothers of Pity hurry past to their works of mercy.
There too the little children play, and sometimes stop to stare at the marble pictures, set in the first story of the tower,
low enough to be seen from the street. Their special favourite is perhaps the picture of the shepherd sitting under his
tent, with the sheep in front, and with the funniest little dog keeping watch at the side.

Giotto always had a great love for animals, and whenever it was possible he would squeeze one into a corner of his
pictures. He was sixty years old when he designed this wonderful tower and cut some of the marble pictures with his
own hand, but you can see that the memory of those old days when he ran barefoot about the hills and tended his sheep
was with him still. Just such another little puppy must have often played with him in those long-ago days before he
became a great painter and was still only a merry, brown-faced boy, making pictures with a sharp stone upon the
smooth rocks.

Up and down the narrow streets of Florence now, the great painter would walk and watch the faces of the people as
they passed. And his eyes would still make pictures of them and their busy life, just as they used to do with the olive-
trees, the sheep, and the clouds.

In those days nobody cared to have pictures in their houses, and only the walls of the churches were painted. So the
pictures, or frescoes, as they were called, were of course all about sacred subjects, either stories out of the Bible or of
the lives of the saints. And as there were few books, and the poor people did not know how to read, these frescoed
walls were the only story-books they had.

What a joy those pictures of Giotto's must have been, then, to those poor folk! They looked at the little Baby Jesus
sitting on His mother's knee, wrapped in swaddling bands, just like one of their own little ones, and it made Him seem a
very real baby. The wise men who talked together and pointed to the shining star overhead looked just like any of the
great nobles of Florence. And there at the back were the two horses looking on with wise interested eyes, just as any of
their own horses might have done.

It seemed to make the story of Christmas a thing which had really happened, instead of a far-away tale which had little
meaning for them. Heaven and the Madonna were not so far off after all. And it comforted them to think that the
Madonna had been a real woman like themselves, and that the Jesu Bambino would stoop to bless them still, just as He
leaned forward to bless the wise men in the picture.

How real too would seem the old story of the meeting of Anna and Joachim at the Golden Gate, when they could gaze
upon the two homely figures under the narrow gateway. No visionary saints these, but just a simple husband and wife,
meeting each other with joy after a sad separation, and yet with the touch of heavenly meaning shown by the angel who
hovers above and places a hand upon each head.

It was not only in Florence that Giotto did his work. His fame spread far and wide, and he went from town to town
eagerly welcomed by all. We can trace his footsteps as he went, by those wonderful old pictures which he spread with
loving care over the bare walls of the churches, lifting, as it were, the curtain that hides Heaven from our view and
bringing some of its joys to earth.

Then, at Assisi, he covered the walls and ceiling of the church with the wonderful frescoes of the life of St. Francis; and
the little round commonplace Arena Chapel of Padua is made exquisite inside by his pictures of the life of our Lord.

In the days when Giotto lived the towns of Italy were continually quarrelling with one another, and there was always
fighting going on somewhere. The cities were built with a wall all round them, and the gates were shut each night to keep

out their enemies. But often the fighting was between different families inside the city, and the grim old palaces in the
narrow streets were built tall and strong that they might be the more easily defended.

In the midst of all this war and quarrelling Giotto lived his quiet, peaceful life, the friend of every one and the enemy of
none. Rival towns sent for him to paint their churches with his heavenly pictures, and the people who hated Florence
forgot that he was a Florentine. He was just Giotto, and he belonged to them all. His brush was the white flag of truce
which made men forget their strife and angry passions, and turned their thoughts to holier things.

Even the great poet Dante did not scorn to be a friend of the peasant painter, and we still have the portrait which Giotto
painted of him in an old fresco at Florence. Later on, when the great poet was a poor unhappy exile, Giotto met him
again at Padua and helped to cheer some of those sad grey days, made so bitter by strife and injustice.

Now when Giotto was beginning to grow famous, it happened that the Pope was anxious to have the walls of the great
Cathedral of St. Peter at Rome decorated. So he sent messengers all over Italy to find out who were the best painters,
that he might invite them to come and do the work.

The messengers went from town to town and asked every artist for a specimen of his painting. This was gladly given,
for it was counted a great honour to help to make St. Peter's beautiful.

By and by the messengers came to Giotto and told him their errand. The Pope, they said, wished to see one of his
drawings to judge if he was fit for the great work. Giotto, who was always most courteous, 'took a sheet of paper and a
pencil dipped in a red colour, then, resting his elbow on his side, with one turn of the hand, he drew a circle so perfect
and exact that it was a marvel to behold.' 'Here is your drawing,' he said to the messenger, with a smile, handing him the
drawing.

'Am I to have nothing more than this?' asked the man, staring at the red circle in astonishment and disgust.

'That is enough and to spare,' answered Giotto. 'Send it with the rest.'

The messengers thought this must all be a joke.

'How foolish we shall look if we take only a round O to show his Holiness,' they said.

But they could get nothing else from Giotto, so they were obliged to be content and to send it with the other drawings,
taking care to explain just how it was done.

The Pope and his advisers looked carefully over all the drawings, and, when they came to that round O, they knew that
only a master-hand could have made such a perfect circle without the help of a compass. Without a moment's hesitation
they decided that Giotto was the man they wanted, and they at once invited him to come to Rome to decorate the
cathedral walls. So when the story was known the people became prouder than ever of their great painter, and the
round O of Giotto has become a proverb to this day in Tuscany.

'Round as the O of Giotto, d' ye see;
Which means as well done as a thing can be.'

Later on, when Giotto was at Naples, he was painting in the palace chapel one very hot day, when the king came in to
watch him at his work. It really was almost too hot to move, and yet Giotto painted away busily.

'Giotto,' said the king, 'if I were in thy place I would give up painting for a while and take my rest, now that it is so hot.'

'And, indeed, so I would most certainly do,' answered Giotto, 'if I were in your place, your Majesty.'

It was these quick answers and his merry smile that charmed every one, and made the painter a favourite with rich and
poor alike.

There are a great many stories told of him, and they all show what a sunny-tempered, kindly man he was.

It is said that one day he was standing in one of the narrow streets of Florence talking very earnestly to a friend, when a
pig came running down the road in a great hurry. It did not stop to look where it was going, but ran right between the
painter's legs and knocked him flat on his back, putting an end to his learned talk.

Giotto scrambled to his feet with a rueful smile, and shook his finger at the pig which was fast disappearing in the
distance.

'Ah, well!' he said, 'I suppose thou hadst as much right to the road as I had. Besides, how many gold pieces I have
earned by the help of thy bristles, and never have I given any of thy family even a drop of soup in payment.'

Another time he went riding with a very learned lawyer into the country to look after his property. For when Bondone
died, he left all his fields and his farm to his painter son. Very soon a storm came on, and the rain poured down as if it
never meant to stop.

'Let us seek shelter in this farmhouse and borrow a cloak,' suggested Giotto.

So they went in and borrowed two old cloaks from the farmer, and wrapped themselves up from head to foot. Then
they mounted their horses and rode back together to Florence.

Presently the lawyer turned to look at Giotto, and immediately burst into a loud laugh. The rain was running from the
painter's cap, he was splashed with mud, and the old cloak made him look like a very forlorn beggar.

'Dost think if any one met thee now, they would believe that thou art the best painter in the world?' laughed the lawyer.

Giotto's eyes twinkled as he looked at the funny figure riding beside him, for the lawyer was very small, and had a
crooked back, and rolled up in the old cloak he looked like a bundle of rags.

'Yes!' he answered quickly, 'any one would certainly believe I was a great painter, if he could but first persuade himself
that thou dost know thy A B C.'

In all these stories we catch glimpses of the good-natured kindly painter, with his love of jokes, and his own ready
answers, and all the time we must remember that he was filling the world with beauty, which it still treasures to-day,
helping to sow the seeds of that great tree of Art which was to blossom so gloriously in later years.

And when he had finished his earthly work it was in his own cathedral, 'St. Mary of the Flowers,' that they laid him to
rest, while the people mourned him as a good friend as well as a great painter. There he lies in the shadow of his lily
tower, whose slender grace and delicate-tinted marbles keep his memory ever fresh in his beautiful city of Florence.

FRA ANGELICO

Nearly a hundred years had passed by since Giotto lived and worked in Florence, and in the same hilly country where
he used to tend his sheep another great painter was born.

Many other artists had come and gone, and had added their golden links of beauty to the chain of Art which bound
these years together. Some day you will learn to know all their names and what they did. But now we will only single
out, here and there, a few of those names which are perhaps greater than the rest. Just as on a clear night, when we
look up into the starlit sky, it would bewilder us to try and remember all the stars, so we learn first to know those that
are most easily recognised--the Plough, or the Great Bear, as they shine with a clear steady light against the background
of a thousand lesser stars.

The name by which this second great painter is known is Fra Angelico, but that was only the name he earned in later
years. His baby name was Guido, and his home was in a village close to where Giotto was born.

He was not a poor boy, and did not need to work in the fields or tend the sheep on the hillside. Indeed, he might have
soon become rich and famous, for his wonderful talent for painting would have quickly brought him honours and wealth
if he had gone out into the world. But instead of this, when he was a young man of twenty he made up his mind to enter
the convent at Fiesole, and to become a monk of the Order of Saint Dominic.

Every brother, or frate, as he is called, who leaves the world and enters the life of the convent is given a new name, and
his old name is never used again. So young Guido was called Fra Giovanni, or Brother John. But it is not by that name
that he is known best, but that of Fra Angelico, or the angelic brother--a name which was given him afterwards because
of his pure and beautiful life, and the heavenly pictures which he painted.

With all his great gifts in his hands, with all the years of youth and pleasure stretching out green and fair before him, he
said good-bye to earthly joys, and chose rather to serve his Master Christ in the way he thought was right.

The monks of St. Dominic were the great preachers of those days--men who tried to make the world better by telling
people what they ought to do, and teaching them how to live honest and good lives. But there are other ways of
teaching people besides preaching, and the young monk who spent his time bending over the illuminated prayer-book,
seeing with his dreamy eyes visions of saints and white-robed angels, was preparing to be a greater teacher than them
all. The words of the preacher monks have passed away, and the world pays little heed to them now, but the teaching
of Fra Angelico, the silent lessons of his wonderful pictures, are as fresh and clear to-day as they were in those far-off
years.

Great trouble was in store for the monks of the little convent at Fiesole, which Fra Angelico and his brother Benedetto
had entered. Fierce struggles were going on in Italy between different religious parties, and at one time the little band of
preaching monks were obliged to leave their peaceful home at Fiesole to seek shelter in other towns. But, as it turned
out, this was good fortune for the young painter-monk, for in those hill towns of Umbria where the brothers sought
refuge there were pictures to be studied which delighted his eyes with their beauty, and taught him many a lesson which
he could never have learned on the quiet slopes of Fiesole.

The hill towns of Italy are very much the same to-day as they were in those days. Long winding roads lead upwards
from the plain below to the city gates, and there on the summit of the hill the little town is built. The tall white houses
cluster close together, and the overhanging eaves seem almost to meet across the narrow paved streets, and always
there is the great square, with the church the centre of all.

It would be almost a day's journey to follow the white road that leads down from Perugia across the plain to the little hill
town of Assisi, and many a spring morning saw the painter-monk setting out on the convent donkey before sunrise and
returning when the sun had set. He would thread his way up between the olive-trees until he reached the city gates, and
pass into the little town without hindrance. For the followers of St. Francis in their brown robes would be glad to
welcome a stranger monk, though his black robe showed that he belonged to a different order. Any one who came to
see the glory of their city, the church where their saint lay, which Giotto had covered with his wonderful pictures, was
never refused admittance.

How often then must Fra Angelico have knelt in the dim light of that lower church of Assisi, learning his lesson on his
knees, as was ever his habit. Then home again he would wend his way, his eyes filled with visions of those beautiful
pictures, and his hand longing for the pencil and brush, that he might add new beauty to his own work from what he had
learned.

Several years passed by, and at last the brothers were allowed to return to their convent home of San Dominico at
Fiesole, and there they lived peaceably for a long time. We cannot tell exactly what pictures our painter-monk painted
during those peaceful years, but we know he must have been looking out with wise, seeing eyes, drinking in all the
beauty that was spread around him.

At his feet lay Florence, with its towers and palaces, the Arno running through it like a silver thread, and beyond, the
purple of the Tuscan hills. All around on the sheltered hillside were green vines and fruit-trees, olives and cypresses,
fields flaming in spring with scarlet anemones or golden with great yellow tulips, and hedges of rose-bushes covered
with clusters of pink blossoms. No wonder, then, such beauty sunk into his heart, and we see in his pictures the pure
fresh colour of the spring flowers, with no shadow of dark or evil things.

Soon the fame of the painter began to be whispered outside the convent walls, and reached the ears of Cosimo da
Medici, one of the powerful rulers of Florence. He offered the monks a new home, and, when they were settled in the
convent of San Marco in Florence, he invited Fra Angelico to fresco the walls.

One by one the heavenly pictures were painted upon the walls of the cells and cloister of the new home. How the
brothers must have crowded round to see each new fresco as it was finished, and how anxious they would be to see
which picture was to be near their own particular bed. In all the frescoes, whether he painted the gentle Virgin bending
before the angel messenger, or tried to show the glory of the ascended Lord, the artist-monk would always introduce
one or more of the convent's special saints, which made the brothers feel that the pictures were their very own. Fra
Angelico had a kind word and smile for all the brothers. He was never impatient, and no one ever saw him angry, for he
was as humble and gentle as the saints whose pictures he loved to paint.

It is told of him, too, that he never took a brush or pencil in his hand without a prayer that his work might be to the glory
of God. Often when he painted the sufferings of our Lord, the tears would be seen running down his cheeks and almost
blinding his eyes.

There is an old legend which tells of a certain monk who, when he was busily illuminating a page of his missal, was
called away to do some service for the poor. He went unwillingly, the legend says, for he longed to put the last touches
to the holy picture he was painting; but when he returned, lo! he found his work finished by angel hands.

Often when we look at some of Fra Angelico's pictures we are reminded of this legend, and feel that he too might have
been helped by those same angel hands. Did they indeed touch his eyes that he might catch glimpses of a Heaven where
saints were swinging their golden censers, and white-robed angels danced in the flowery meadows of Paradise? We
cannot tell; but this we know, that no other painter has ever shown us such a glory of heavenly things.

Best of all, the angel-painter loved to paint pictures of the life of our Lord; and in the picture I have shown you, you will
see the tender care with which he has drawn the head of the Infant Jesus with His little golden halo, the Madonna in her
robe of purest blue, holding the Baby close in her arms, St. Joseph the guardian walking at the side, and all around the
flowers and trees which he loved so well in the quiet home of Fiesole.

He did not care for fame or power, this dreamy painter of angels, and when the Pope invited him to Rome to paint the

walls of a chapel there, he thought no more of the glory and honour than if he was but called upon to paint another cell
at San Marco.

But when the Pope had seen what this quiet monk could do, he called the artist to him.

'A man who can paint such pictures,' he said, 'must be a good man, and one who will do well whatever he undertakes.
Will you, then, do other work for me, and become my Archbishop at Florence?' But the painter was startled and
dismayed.

'I cannot teach or preach or govern men,' he said, 'I can but use my gift of painting for the glory of God. Let me rather
be as I am, for it is safer to obey than to rule.'

But though he would not take this honour himself, he told the Pope of a friend of his, a humble brother, Fra Antonino, at
the convent of San Marco, who was well fitted to do the work. So the Pope took the painter's advice, and the choice
was so wise and good, that to this day the Florentine people talk lovingly of their good bishop Antonino.

It was while he was at work in Rome that Fra Angelico died, so his body does not rest in his own beloved Florence.
But if his body lies in Rome, his gentle spirit still seems to hover around the old convent of San Marco, and there we
learn to know and love him best. Little wonder that in after ages they looked upon him almost as a saint, and gave him
the title of 'Beato,' or the blessed angel-painter.

MASACCIO

It must have been about the same time when Fra Angelico was covering the walls of San Marco with his angel pictures,
that a very different kind of painter was working in the Carmine church in Florence.

This was no gentle, refined monk, but just an ordinary man of the world--an awkward, good-natured person, who, as
long as he had pictures to paint, cared for little else. Why, he would even forget to ask for payment when his work was
done; and as to taking care of his clothes, or trying to keep himself tidy, that was a thing he never thought of!

What trouble his mother must have had with him when he was a boy! It was no use sending him on an errand, he would
forget it before he had gone a hundred yards, and he was so careless and untidy that it was enough to make any one
lose patience with him. But only let him have a pencil and a smooth surface on which to draw, and he was a different
boy.

It is said that even now, in the little town of Castello San Giovanni, some eighteen miles from Florence, where Tommaso
was born, there are still some wonderfully good figures to be seen, drawn by him when he was quite a little boy.
Certainly there was no carelessness and nothing untidy about his work.

As the boy grew older all his longings would turn towards Florence, the beautiful city where there was everything to
learn and to see, and so he was sent to become a pupil in the studio of Masolino, a great Florentine painter. But though
his drawings improved, his careless habits continued the same.

'There goes Tommaso the painter,' the people would say, watching the big awkward figure passing through the streets
on his way to work. 'Truly he pays but little heed to his appearance. Look but at his untidy hair and the holes in his
boots.'

'Ay, indeed!' another would answer; 'and yet it is said if only people paid him all they owed he would have gold enough
and to spare. But what cares he so long as he has his paints and brushes? "Masaccio" would be a fitter name for him
than Tommaso.'

So the name Masaccio, or Ugly Tom, came to be that by which the big awkward painter was known. But no one thinks
of the unkind meaning of the nickname now, for Masaccio is honoured as one of the great names in the history of Art.

This painter, careless of many things, cared with all his heart and soul for the work he had chosen to do. It seemed to
him that painters had always failed to make their pictures like living things. The pictures they painted were flat, not round
as a figure should be, and very often the feet did not look as if they were standing on the ground at all, but pointed
downwards as if they were hanging in the air.

So he worked with light and shadow and careful drawing until the figures he drew looked rounded instead of flat, and
their feet were planted firmly on the ground. His models were taken from the ordinary Florentine youths whom he saw
daily in the studio, but he drew them as no one had drawn figures before. The buildings, too, he made to look like real
houses leading away into the distance, and not just like a flat picture.

He painted many frescoes both in Florence and Rome, this Ugly Tom, but at the time the people did not pay him much
honour, for they thought him just a great awkward fellow with his head always in the clouds. Perhaps if he had lived
longer fame and wealth would have come to him, but he died when he was still a young man, and only a few realised
how great he was.

But in after years, one by one, all the great artists would come to that little chapel of the Carmine there to learn their first
lessons from those life-like figures. Especially they would stand before the fresco which shows St. Peter baptizing a
crowd of people. And in that fresco they would study more than all the figure of a boy who has just come out of the
water, shivering with cold, the most natural figure that had ever been painted up to that time.

All things must be learnt little by little, and each new thing we know is a step onwards. So this figure of the shivering boy
marks a higher step of the golden ladder of Art than any that had been touched before. And this alone would have
made the name of Masaccio worthy to be placed upon the list of world's great painters.

FRA FILIPPO LIPPI

It was winter time in Florence. The tramontana, that keen wind which blows from over the snow mountains, was
sweeping down the narrow streets, searching out every nook and corner with its icy breath. Men flung their cloaks
closer round them, and pulled their hats down over their eyes, so that only the tips of their noses were left uncovered for
the wind to freeze. Women held their scaldinoes, little pots of hot charcoal, closer under their shawls, and even the dogs
had a sad, half-frozen look. One and all longed for the warm winds of spring and the summer heat they loved. It was
bad enough for those who had warm clothes and plenty of polenta, but for the poor life was very hard those cold wintry
days.

In a doorway of a great house, in one of the narrow streets, a little boy of eight was crouching behind one of the stone
pillars as he tried to keep out of the grip of the tramontana. His little coat was folded closely round him, but it was full of
rents and holes so that the thin body inside was scarcely covered, and the child's blue lips trembled with the cold, and
his black eyes filled with tears.

It was not often that Filippo turned such a sad little face to meet the world. Usually those black eyes sparkled with fun
and mischief, and the mouth spread itself into a merry grin. But to-day, truly things were worse than he ever
remembered them before, and he could remember fairly bad times, too, if he tried.

Other children had their fathers and mothers who gave them food and clothes, but he seemed to be quite different, and
never had had any one to care for him. True, there was his aunt, old Mona Lapaccia, who said he had once had a
father and mother like other boys, but she always added with a mournful shake of her head that she alone had endured
all the trouble and worry of bringing him up since he was two years old. 'Ah,' she would say, turning her eyes upwards,
'the saints alone know what I have endured with a great hungry boy to feed and clothe.'

It seemed to Filippo that in that case the saints must also know how very little he had to eat, and how cold he was on
these wintry days. But of course they would be too grand to care about a little boy.

In summer things were different. One could roll merrily about in the sunshine all day long, and at night sleep in some
cool sheltering corner of the street. And then, too, there was always a better chance of picking up something to eat.
Plenty of fig skins and melon parings were flung carelessly out into the street when fruit was plentiful, and people would
often throw away the remains of a bunch of grapes. It was wonderful how quickly Filippo learned to know people's
faces, and to guess who would finish to the last grape and who would throw the smaller ones away. Some would even
smile as they caught his anxious, waiting eye fixed on the fruit, and would cry 'Catch' as they threw a goodly bunch into
those small brown hands that never let anything slip through their fingers.

Oh, yes, summer was all right, but there was always winter to face. To-day he was so very hungry, and the lupin skins
which he had collected for his breakfast were all eaten long ago. He had hung about the little open shops, sniffing up the
delicious smell of fried polenta, but no one had given him a morsel. All he had got was a stern 'be off' when he ventured
too close to the tempting food. If only this day had been a festa, he might have done well enough. For in the great
processions when the priests and people carried their lighted candles round the church, he could always dart in and out
with his little iron scraper, lift the melted wax of the marble floor and sell it over again to the candlemakers.

But there were no processions to-day, and there remained only one thing to be done. He must go home and see if
Mona Lapaccia had anything to spare. Perhaps the saints took notice when he was hungry.

Down the street he ran, keeping close to the wall, just as the dogs do when it rains. For the great overhanging eaves of
the houses act as a sheltering umbrella. Then out into the broad street that runs beside the river, where, even in winter,
the sun shines warmly if it shines anywhere.

Filippo paused at the corner of the Ponte alla Carraja to watch the struggles of a poor mule which was trying to pull a
huge cartload of wood up the steep incline of the bridge. It was so exciting that for a moment he forgot how cold and
hungry he was, as he shouted and screamed directions with the rest of the crowd, darted in and out in his eagerness to
help, and only got into every one's way.

That excitement over, Filippo felt in better spirits and ran quickly across the bridge. He soon threaded his way to a poor
street that led towards one of the city gates, where everything looked dirtier and more cheerless than ever. He had not
expected a welcome, and he certainly did not get one, as, after climbing the steep stairs, he cautiously pushed open the
door and peeped in.

His aunt's thin face looked dark and angry. Poor soul, she had had no breakfast either, and there would be no food that
day unless her work was finished. And here was this troublesome boy back again, when she thought she had got rid of
him for the day.

'Away!' she shouted crossly. 'What dost thou mean by coming back so soon? Away, and seek thy living in the streets.'

'It is too cold,' said the boy, creeping into the bare room, 'and I am hungry.'

'Hungry!' and poor Mona Lapaccia cast her eyes upwards, as if she would ask the saints if they too were not filled with
surprise to hear this word. 'And when art thou anything else? It is ever the same story with thee: eat, eat, eat. Now, the
saints help me, I have borne this burden long enough. I will see if I cannot shift it on to other shoulders.'

She rose as she spoke, tied her yellow handkerchief over her head and smoothed out her apron. Then she caught
Filippo by his shoulder and gave him a good shake, just to teach him how wrong it was to talk of being hungry, and
pushing him in front of her they went downstairs together.

'Where art thou going?' gasped the boy as she dragged him swiftly along the street.

'Wait and thou shalt see,' she answered shortly; 'and do thou mind thy manners, else will I mind them for thee.'

Filippo ran along a little quicker on hearing this advice. He had but a dim notion of what minding his manners might
mean, but he guessed fairly well what would happen if his aunt minded them. Ah! here they were at the great square of
the Carmine. He had often crept into the church to get warm and to see those wonderful pictures on the walls. Could
they be going there now?

But it was towards the convent door that Mona Lapaccia bent her steps, and, when she had rung the bell, she gave
Filippo's shoulder a final shake, and pulled his coat straight and smoothed his hair.

A fat, good-natured brother let them in, and led them through the many passages into a room where the prior sat
finishing his midday meal.

Filippo's hungry eyes were immediately fixed on a piece of bread which lay upon the table, and the kindly prior smiled
as he nodded his head towards it.

Not another invitation did Filippo need; like a bird he darted forward and snatched the piece of good white bread, and
holding it in both hands he began to munch to his heart's content. How long it was since he had tasted anything like this!
It was so delicious that for a few blissful moments he forgot where he was, forgot his aunt and the great man who was
looking at him with such kind eyes.

But presently he heard his own name spoken and then he looked up and remembered. 'And so, Filippo, thou wouldst
become a monk?' the prior was saying. 'Let me see--how old art thou?'

'Eight years old, your reverence,' said Mona Lapaccia before Filippo could answer. Which was just as well, as his
mouth was still very full.

'And it is thy desire to leave the world, and enter our convent?' continued the prior. 'Art thou willing to give up all, that
thou mayest become a servant of God?'

The little dirty brown hands clutched the bread in dismay. Did the kind man mean that he was to give up his bread when
he had scarcely eaten half of it?

'No, no; eat thy bread, child,' said the prior, with an understanding nod. 'Thou art but a babe, but we will make a good
monk of thee yet.'

Then, indeed, began happy days for Filippo. No more threadbare coats, but a warm little brown serge robe, tied round
the waist with a rope whose ends grew daily shorter as the way round his waist grew longer. No more lupin skins and
whiffs of fried polenta, but food enough and to spare; such food as he had not dreamt of before, and always as much as
he could eat.

Filippo was as happy as the day was long. He had always been a merry little soul even when life had been hard and
food scarce, and now he would not have changed his lot with the saints in Paradise.

But the good brothers began to think it was time Filippo should do something besides play and eat.

'Let us see what the child is fit for,' they said.

So Filippo was called in to sit on the bench with the boys and learn his A B C. That was dreadfully dull work. He could
never remember the names of those queer signs. Their shapes he knew quite well, and...